


Come to An Accord

by hoomhum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Boundary Negotiation, Humiliation kink, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Power Dynamics, Supernatural Elements, Vampire!Mycroft, Verbal Humiliation, Werewolf!Lestrade, dominant greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-08 04:10:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20306023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum
Summary: From the street outside his Pall Mall residence, Mycroft could tell there was someone inside his flat. It was a heartbeat he recognized. One he had invited, even, and yet again he hesitated.He had not survived for nearly four hundred years by taking undue risks.





	Come to An Accord

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this tonight, in honor of the Hugo Award. Congrats, AO3. Thank you for being so gracious, and so wonderful a community.
> 
> Yes, I still owe someone an auction fic. It's... in the works. Please have this in the mean time.

From the street outside his Pall Mall residence, Mycroft could tell there was someone inside his flat. It was a heartbeat he recognized. One he had invited, even, and yet again he hesitated.

He had not survived for nearly four hundred years by taking undue risks. 

He had survived, flourished, where his brethren had fallen by a combination of strategy and unmatched wit. He had seen the political machinations of decades come undone because of a whisper, watched empires fall from a suggestion; the best leaders and rulers squashed beneath the ever moving tides of change because of choices witnessed by unseen eyes.

He had been those unseen eyes.

And yet… he reached out to tap in the code to unlock the door and let himself into the building. The lower floor flats were unoccupied, but kept furnished and pristine in case he had need of them. He climbed the stairs, feeling the slight tremor in his legs as he did so.

He was weak.

It was easier these days to supplement his diet without risk than it had been once. His political and social connections were vast, and modern medicine meant bagged blood was readily available, even if it tasted stale and did less to rejuvenate him than drinking from the source.

He could have fulfilled himself with prepackaged blood. A hint of antiseptic, before the cool rush of a full bodied O or A positive, or the sweetness of an Rh negative. He could have enlisted Anthea to acquire a personal donor to pay off, someone who would take the money and never bother him again; someone he could sink his fangs into. 

If it had just been the hunger, perhaps he might have.

"You going to stand out there all day?" Greg leaned against the open doorway of Mycroft's flat as though he owned the place, the smirk on his lips nothing short of feral. He paused, watching and waiting. This was the moment, Mycroft thought. He could tell the man to leave, pretend their last intimate encounter had been nothing more than a fluke, and go back to being… acquaintances? Friends?

He let his shoulders fall, the firm grip on his umbrella's middle loosening until it slid through his hand and caught just at the wooden curve of the handle as the tip hit the floor. 

"'s what I thought," Greg said, stepping back to let him in. "Go wash up. You stink of sunscreen."

As he moved through the flat, Mycroft could smell the wolf. He'd sent the text at lunchtime. Had Greg rushed over then, shifted into his four legged form and prowled the lair of his ancestral enemy to mark it with his scent? Mycroft felt his fangs lengthen, his fingers stretch and his nails sharpen in response to the thought, which had come from the most ridiculous of ingrained instincts. He flexed his hands, willing them to return to their human shape. 

Greg had been invited. He'd come immediately to prepare, to ensure he was ready when Mycroft arrived. There was no malice in that.

The heavy curtains in the sitting room had been flung back, but there was no danger there, either. He had explained the protective UV coating on the glass the first night Greg had stopped by for a scotch and to chat about Sherlock's involvement with the Yard. The sun was still out now, not even starting to set, but inside he was safe from it. 

Greg took his umbrella and used it to nudge him toward the loo. His heart rate was elevated: not racing, but higher than his body language would suggest. It matched the glint in his eyes as he abandoned the brolly in its stand and prowled after Mycroft, crowding him into the small room.

"Drop trou." 

Mycroft watched the man's face in the mirror, unfazed by the absence of his own reflection.

"I believe I was meant to be washing up," he pointed out. Greg's hands were on his hips, holding onto him, but not forcing him anywhere. In Mycroft's current weakened state, he was in little position to fight back if he needed to.

"Oh, you are, sunshine," Greg grinned. His hands swept beneath Mycroft's jacket and waistcoat, grabbing double fistfuls of his shirt and yanking it free from his trousers. "But you can take off your pants first, or I'll take them off you. Your choice."

Greg radiated heat: part of his lycanthropic nature. Mycroft felt it as he swayed backward slightly, hands moving to his flies. He paused once they were undone, conscious of the fact that his clothes would catch on his shoes-- and of the fact that he was exposing himself in front of one his sire would have named enemy. 

His sire was long dead, though, and had died alone. This was not an age of covens. He had but a brother, his work, and one Greg Lestrade, who conspired to be something more.

"Wash," Greg instructed, warm thumbs dipping into the waistband of both pants and trousers and tugging them down. "I can barely smell you over the chemicals." 

"You exaggerate." His own reply was remarkably steady as he reached for the tap, one hand braced against the vanity to counterbalance the jostling below. Greg bared him roughly to the air, pushing the fabric down past his thighs. 

"I'd never." A gasp overwhelmed him as Greg very suddenly pressed his nose to the crease of his arse, his tongue swiping briefly across tender skin. Startled, Mycroft's shifted forward, hips bumping the marble vanity. He felt Greg press a stubbly cheek against his bum in silent apology. "You've waited too long."

It was true, though Mycroft would not admit it. He rolled up his sleeves and began to wash his hands and forearms thoroughly with unscented soap. He did not examine why he'd bought unscented soap in the first place. He could feel Greg kneeling behind him, still leaning his face against his arse, with his arms wrapped around him. It took him far too long to realize he was picking at his shoelaces.

"Up," Greg instructed, lifting one foot and sliding the shoe off, then the other. He let Mycroft's trousers and pants pool around his ankles once he'd completed that task. "Now your face, sunshine. I told you, you stink."

Rolling his eyes and grateful that his recent fast made blushing impossible, Mycroft reached for the package of face wipes behind the mirror. As he began to clean his face, Greg moved quickly to his feet and plucked a wipe from the discarded pack. His touch was slightly rough as he began to stroke over Mycroft's neck, throat and chin.

The whole process took less than a minute, but every nerve felt like it was on fire by the time they were done. Mycroft found himself trembling, braced against the vanity, with Greg pressed up against his back as they binned the used wipes. 

"Better," Greg growled, scraping his teeth over the skin beneath Mycroft's ear. "Now, take off that jacket and waistcoat. You don't need them."

He did as asked, because undressing fully wouldn't feel nearly as odd. Greg gave him no room to maneuver. He took each garment as Mycroft removed them, but grasped his wrist when he went for the buttons of his shirt. 

"I didn't say that." Greg dropped the pieces of Mycroft's suit to the floor and in the same second pulled his wrist to the small of his back. It was a firm hold, but not a painful one. "Don't try to be clever."

"I'm always clever," Mycroft said to Greg's reflection in the mirror, lips slightly parted, breath— an autonomic response he hadn't needed in centuries— coming quickly.

"I handle your brother's smart mouth on a daily basis," Greg replied. "You really think I can't handle yours?"

Mouth dry, Mycroft licked his lips. "Not in the same way, I hope."

Greg leaned in, pressing his mouth wide open to the junction between Mycroft's neck and shoulder. He released his wrist, taking hold of his hips again, thumbs pressing firmly into the flesh of his arse. Mycroft could hear the grin in his reply as he propelled him from the room. "Not in the same way, no."

It was only through Greg's support and his own dexterity that he didn't trip over the fabric at his feet as he was hauled through the flat. He'd assumed the bedroom would be their final destination, but Greg seemed to have other plans. The scent of wolf was stronger in the sitting room; it tickled his nose as Greg guided him to bend over the armchair. For just a second he resisted, but Greg's hands were firm and, really, wasn't this what he had wanted all along, even if he was ashamed to admit it?

He pillowed his arms beneath his head, turning it to the side to watch his companion. The angle wasn't too awkward, for all that it bared his arse to the room. The height of the arm he was braced against was not so high that he had to raise up on his toes, nor so low that he had to crouch awkwardly. 

"You're not feeling much, are you?" Greg asked as he ran his hand down Mycroft's spine. It was true; more than anything he could track the presence of blood warmed fingers nearby, but actually feeling it was beyond his body's capability at this point. He shook his head minutely. 

Sensation was not paramount for his kind. His body could function in this capacity for several more weeks, if necessary. The more blood he consumed, the more his physiological responses mimicked humanity's. 

"Unacceptable, sunshine." Greg's thumb brushed over his lower lip, drawing it down and teasing his teeth gently. "Have a taste, for now. I want you to feel this. You'll have to earn your dinner, though."

Mycroft opened his mouth, fangs lengthening instinctively in reaction to the proximity of a blood source. Greg threaded fingers into his hair with one hand, the other sliding by his face to proffer his wrist. He didn't even flinch as Mycroft bit down. 

"Just a taste," he warned, grip tightening as Mycroft pressed his lips to the pinprick holes and began to suck. "You haven't been good for me yet."

The rush of blood was louder than Greg's words. It warmed him, heightened the feeling of cool air against his bare arse, of rough upholstery fabric against the tender skin of his cock, of Greg's gaze upon his face, which was apparently capable once more of blushing. 

"Stop."

The sound that escaped him was more like a prey animal than the predator he was meant to be. He ran his tongue over the marks he had made, serving the double purpose of lapping up a little more blood as it spilled and sealing the small wounds. He could not help a pleased exhalation even as Greg dragged his head back, forcing his neck to arch. 

"Fangs away," he demanded next, standing over the armchair and looking no worse for wear. "I don't want to see those again until I say."

This was certainly a benefit to having a partner like Greg; a regular human would have lost their footing after such an offering. Mycroft licked his lips, seeking every last drop that had been spilled. Now that the insistent ache of his hunger had abated, there was another need that thrummed in his veins. Desire, which he had kept buried as well as possible, stirred in him and begged for attention. 

"Put them away," Greg repeated, hand shifting to grip Mycroft's jaw firmly as Mycroft scrambled to get his hands beneath him, trying to push himself up, to unfold from the mortifying position he'd allowed himself to be placed in when he was weaker. He was thinking more clearly now, knew that he was playing with fire. Yet somehow as Greg's fingers tightened against his chin he found himself stilling again.

"You have more control than this," Greg said, his tone not one of reprimand, but simple observation. "Put them away." 

He did. The needle sharp tips retracted, incisors and canines flattening again until they resembled those of a human. Greg let go of his hair and he opened his mouth obligingly, letting the man press three thick fingers in to feel the dull tips and pet against his tongue.

"Told you." Greg pulled away after a moment, wiping his wet fingers on Mycroft's shoulder, staining the white fabric of his shirt with spit. He stepped back then, crossing the room entirely and approaching the drinks cabinet.

Feeling filthy, and incredibly conscious of the hardness of his erection pressing into the arm of the chair, Mycroft pushed himself up. The tails of his shirt barely covered his modesty. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, which had come unfolded in the jostling, and then hesitated. 

Greg poured himself a drink, his back to the room.

He should go. He should retreat, now. Go and dress, or at the very least fetch a dressing gown to cover himself. This was ridiculous. He was not some needy, whiny, wanton creature. His kind had traditionally hunted werewolves. Nearly to extinction. He was four centuries old. Greg Lestrade hadn't even lived one. 

How could he do this to him? How could Mycroft let him?

"You know you haven't got to be hungry to see me," Greg said, still without facing him. His voice was easy, his posture relaxed as he seemed to examine the bottles in the cabinet. "Haven't got to need something. You can just want a bloke."

Mycroft's brain stuttered to a halt. He didn't know what expression he was making, but it must have  _ been _ expressive, because Greg's face crumpled when he turned to look at him. 

"Christ, sunshine. Somebody did a number on you, eh?"

That wasn't...

It hadn't…

There was more to...

Greg crossed the room and pressed the glass into his hand. "Sit down. Drink that. It's what we shared last time. Not that I think you keep the crap stuff, but I know this one's good."

He took the drink, because the other option seemed to be letting the tumbler of very expensive scotch fall to the floor, and sat gingerly on the edge of the armchair. 

This was wrong in a million and one ways. Why wasn't he in control? He should be in control. How had he found himself so off footed? What was it about Greg that reduced him to this?

It was that last question that terrified him the most. Watching Greg, who even now had backed up again, given him some modicum of space to pull himself together-- it made him yearn for more of what they had just done.

Yearn to be manhandled. To be stripped. Humiliated.

He downed the drink.

"Come on." Greg was suddenly in front of him, offering him a hand up. Mycroft took it and let himself be led through to the bedroom. Greg took the empty glass, setting it aside, and began to unbutton Mycroft's shirt, starting at his cuffs.

"You could've called anyone," he said quietly as he worked, moving shortly on to Mycroft's collar and working downward. "Called anyone, or brought anyone here. Abducted someone. I'm sure you have a list of people who can be disappeared, if all you needed was a snack. You're powerful enough to do it, given your position."

"I occupy a minor--"

"Stop." 

Mycroft's teeth clicked closed at Greg's command, the automatic response dying on his tongue.

"If you want to put up a front, it'll have to be a better one than that," the other man said firmly. He pulled Mycroft's shirt from his shoulders and stepped away, into the washroom. A moment later he returned with Mycroft's dressing gown. He helped him into it. "My point stands. You called me and I came. If you'd rather I leave now, I can do that."

"No." Mycroft surprised himself. He hadn't decided that and definitely hadn't decided to say so. "Er-- that is…"

"'No' seems pretty cut and dry," Greg pointed out, but he was smirking. "I have pretty good odds you're going to be begging for my cock before the night is out. But go on. What are your reservations?"

He said all of this while standing two feet away, hands tucked comfortably in his pockets. He radiated calm confidence and reassurance, despite the filth he was speaking. Mycroft despaired at the blush heating his own cheeks and neck. 

"I..." He cleared his throat, cursing that infernal smirk. "I need more blood. Before, when— you didn't— that is, I haven't had enough to drink." 

For the first time since Mycroft had set foot in the flat, Greg seemed to lose his confidence. His expression shuttered into one of uncertainty, almost embarrassment. He shook his head, but the gesture seemed to be directed at himself, as in the same moment he began to roll up his shirt sleeve. 

"Take what you need," he said, sitting down on the bed and offering the bared arm to Mycroft. "You shouldn't be able to hurt me by feeding, but I'll let you know if you start to."

Mycroft looked at the forearm he'd been offered, the strength of it and the vulnerability in the veins— pulsing ever so slightly at Greg's wrist and the crook of his elbow— and felt, despite everything he'd said, disappointed. If it had just been this that he wanted, he could have made other arrangements. As Greg had pointed out.

"I'm not interested in manipulating you," Greg said, when Mycroft didn't move. "Actually depriving you isn't… it isn't sexy. It isn't fun. I don't like to see you starving."

Mycroft made no move toward his arm and, visibly unsettled, Greg lowered it. 

"You do like humiliating me, though." Mycroft didn't look at him, keeping his gaze on the drawn curtains instead of on the man beside him. He felt, nevertheless, the way that Greg leaned back, propping himself up on both elbows. 

"Well, yeah. I get a kick out of it, especially because you like being humiliated." There was a pause. "At least, I  _ thought _ you did. You seemed to, and you didn't say no or stop me."

The mattress shifted as Greg moved. He sat up again. "Look, if this is just dinner, that's fine. We didn't get a chance to debrief last time. You did a runner. I didn't think you'd text me again." 

Mycroft pulled his dressing gown a bit tighter around himself and threw a small glare in Greg's direction. He hadn't  _ run _ . He'd been called into work and hadn't woken the other man upon leaving. Upon being glared at, Greg began to look like a mutt that had just been kicked.

"Fine," he said, getting to his feet and shrugging awkwardly. "Be a bloody— er— a damn statue about this. I'll call your assistant, have her order you a bag or something, alright?" He didn't wait for confirmation, but stepped toward the door. Frustration was clear in his tone, but Mycroft didn't need a half millennia of practice reading people to see that most of it was self-recrimination.

The blasted wolf hadn't done anything wrong. It rankled to see Greg mentally disparaging himself. He was a good detective. A good… person. He hadn't read things wrong at all.

Mycroft shot to his feet, crossing the distance between them with inhuman speed, and laying an uncertain hand on Greg's shoulder. He forced himself to look at the man. "You said before, I'd have to earn my dinner."

Greg allowed himself to be stayed, but frowned.

"That was just play. I didn't—" 

"I want to. Earn it." Mycroft leaned in imploringly, meeting his gaze. "I think I'd… like that."

He bit his tongue, hoping that Greg would see, that he wouldn't make him say it out loud. Greg considered him for a moment and then nodded. 

"Alright, then. But after, we're going to talk. No running, this time."

"I didn't—"

Greg began to pull away. "Those are my terms."

"Yes. Fine. But I shan't enjoy it."

The smile he got in return was more of a smirk. "Oh, we'll see about that."


End file.
